


higher power

by thewugtest



Series: Atticus Verse [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Atticus Verse, Exposition, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewugtest/pseuds/thewugtest
Summary: Mass exodus of the self is the eventual goal of all things. There are a thousand ways to do it. There are a thousand ways for destruction to seed itself within you and turn you ugly and evil. All of them are embraced, eventually, by the people who are doomed to take them to their highest level. In the end, when the truth is in front of you, you're always going to turn the page as quickly as possible and forget what's behind you.





	higher power

Atticus had the worst handwriting that Nick Valentine had ever seen. It was perpetually slanted and looked as if the amount of pressure put on the pen was fluctuating between "disappointing" and "nonexistent." The scrawl on the back of the photographs proclaimed, messily: _2279\. 2280. 2281._

2281.

Those pictures must have been from around March, he figured—two months before Atticus died. There was something particularly strange about seeing a person in the months leading up to their demise, unaware of what would eventually befall them. Something stranger, he figured, about seeing _Atticus_ that way. But then, Atticus didn't believe in their own death. It had always been a non-issue. There were a thousand ways people died in the Commonwealth, between raiders and super mutants and the occasional radiation storm, and they had feared none of them. It was some kind of cosmic hubris.

Ellie had always commented on the fact that the photographs of Atticus with the rest of the crew looked old. There was a distinct pre-war joy and naivety to them, something Nick felt was solidly destroyed by his presence in a few of them. There they were, all hazel-eyed shimmer and blonde curls, face frozen in laughter. . . and there he was. Some amalgam of steel and synthetic flesh, still clearly falling apart even six and a half years ago, spoiling the purity of the thing. Hell—back then even _Hancock_ had looked wholesome. Of course, that had been before. . .

It had been before.

And the story went the way the story went. It wasn't unheard of out here. Whatever life you lived, it was possible to make a mistake. There were always going to be slips, and misfires, and occasionally they'd catch someone the wrong way. A stray bullet or a warning shouted too late could mean the end. So maybe it could drive you crazy forever, knowing that the death of the most selfless, impossible, brilliant person you'd ever known had been an accident. Just an accident.

Nick slid the photos back into the filing cabinet, empty of folders, and poked at the brim of his hat as if to adjust its position on his head. It was a nervous gesture, something which stuck with him from the old Nick, and it paradoxically made him even more uneasy to notice about himself. There was always something to trace back to before the war. The people he'd known since then, his place in Diamond City—all of that felt deliriously thin, as if it could be torn away from him at any second. What he'd had six years ago certainly had been. Atticus was gone, and Hancock he preferred not to think about.

Granted, the agency was full of remnants of other people now. He had a suitcase tucked away somewhere half packed full of things Charlie Hayes had left with him a few weeks ago. He'd hardly had the chance to deny her. It was just for now, it was just a few things, it was _for safekeeping._ Charlie, granted, hadn't been seen in or around Diamond City since then. He was half inclined to open up a damned missing persons case himself, but there wasn't anything he could do even if she had gone and vanished. The woman was harder to track than a mole rat through a dust storm.

It had taken him a little under a hundred years to get there, but Nick was genuinely concerned he was losing his edge. Not only that, but losing his edge in a way that couldn't be solved by a tune-up and a good day.

He adjusted his hat, properly this time, and shrugged his shoulders as if to reaffirm the fit of his coat. "Ellie," he started, taking a few steps toward the door already, "you're still up for taking care of this old place while I'm not in, right?"

"Of course," came Ellie's voice from the other room, though she hurried around the corner to see what he was up to. "Where are you going?"

"I'm looking into that business with Darla and her ill-fated romantic streak. Might not be back for a few days, depending on how well I can sweet talk some gangsters out of their bad attitudes." He let out a trained, habitual sigh, and gave Ellie a crooked smile. "Stay safe. Don't argue with Myrna. Here's hoping she lets him down easy."

There was hardly time for a response before he was out the door and pacing down the streets of the City, headed for the exit. A case like this was sure to be risky, what with the chance to piss off every Triggerman in a ten mile radius and undo his good graces with Skinny Malone—but a risk was what he needed. _Something_ like a risk.

A storm was brewing on the horizon as he left the safety of the Wall, and he took it as a sign.

**Author's Note:**

> it's expositionagain! i love that guy! he brings us all our exposition


End file.
